I could find no relief except in physical exercise, and every evening I went for a long run on the towpath along the Isis. After running for an hour or so, I would dive in and swim and then, wet and a little chilled, run back to my mean digs opposite Christ Church. I would gobble some cold dinner (I could no longer bear to eat chicken) and then write far into the night. These writings, titled “Nightcaps,” were frenzied, unsuccessful efforts to forge some sort of philosophy, some recipe for living, some reason to go on.
